Dry Milk

by Huo Yan

  On the first Sunday of every month, John Lee attended a meeting of the Chinese Community Hope Association, an organisation he had joined on the recommendation of Uncle Wang, who collected the goods he sold at his shop. Uncle Wang was a committee member of the association and he took every opportunity to recommend it to others within the Chinese community. It took some time before John Lee realised that Uncle Wang’s enthusiasm for the association was mostly aimed at giving more importance to his position on the committee.

  The chairman of the association was Taiwanese. Word was that he had never married but that he lived with a Westerner. John Lee paid his behaviour close attention. Every now and then, unconsciously, he would seem to form with his hands the delicate ‘orchid fingers’ gestures of the Kunqu opera, and cast a seductive look around him. It was only later on that John Lee learned how, before Liberation, this Taiwanese man with the amorous voice had indeed been a famous opera singer.

  The association would organise activities every Sunday. Ever since John Lee had cut off the internet, Uncle Wang had become his sole source of news, and at times would make a glowing recommendation of some local happening or other, only for John Lee to discover it was an event in which Uncle Wang played a vital role. John Lee didn’t mind the duplicity; his relationship with Uncle Wang was a complicated one. If he relied upon him for news, he also took no pains to hide the dislike he felt towards him. Uncle Wang had arrived in New Zealand five years earlier with his daughter, who had come as an international student, and he had only recently been granted permanent residency, one step short of citizenship. This difference in status allowed John Lee to feel a sense of superiority.

  For the moment, Uncle Wang was sitting next to John Lee, dozing. His neck was twisted so that his head faced John Lee, and a scent of cigarette smoke and petrol emanated off him.

  John Lee glanced at him, contempt playing across his face. On the stage, a visiting professor of Chinese Studies was delivering a lecture on the quintessence of traditional Chinese culture. It was a topic that interested John Lee, and he listened with some concentration, taking a note from time to time of what was said. The professor launched into a discussion of the Taoist philosopher Master Zhuang, and the extent to which the all-knowing and definitive book which carried his name managed to capture both the spirit of Chinese tradition and the paradoxes of life.

  John Lee sat in the audience savouring the moment. Looking around him, he could find nobody he knew. Younger members of the audience had their phones to their ears, with hands over their mouths to hide their smiles. Those slightly older were having difficulty keeping their eyes open, and drifted one by one off to sleep. John Lee turned around and watched as a woman dressed in a coat pulled out a ball of wool from her pocket and began to concentrate on her knitting. He glared at her, but she seemed oblivious to his indignation as whatever shape was emerging from her needles grew in size. It was a child’s glove. John Lee turned back and looked at the professor as if apologising to him on the woman’s behalf. The professor seemed to understand and smiled at him, as if saying that he didn’t mind at all.

  The lecture concluded at five p.m., after which the chair of the association summed up briefly, thanking the mainland Chinese speaker in his Taiwanese accent, giving particular emphasis to the word ‘mainland’. John Lee heard the sighs of those around him. Uncle Wang opened his eyes and rolled his yellow eyeballs. With his elbow, he nudged John Lee. ‘What did he talk about? Was it interesting?’

  John Lee bent down, and gave a cough as if to cover his reply: ‘Not bad. Worth a listen.’

  ‘I guessed that it wouldn’t be much good. Living in New Zealand, what we need is not culture but brute strength.’ Uncle Wang rolled up his sleeves, revealing the creases around his biceps.

  In truth, John Lee had been excited by what he had heard. He got to his feet and walked over to the buffet table. Wine glass in hand, he looked about, hoping for the chance to speak with the professor – but to his surprise, the professor sought him out first.

  ‘You seemed to be listening very carefully. Are you interested in such things?’ he asked.

  John Lee nodded: ‘I think much of what you had to say is still all too relevant.’

  ‘Indeed. In fact all of the various truths we moderns talk about were known long ago by the ancients. It is just that we ignore what is right in front of our noses, and search in the wrong places for answers. I’ve read some of the masterpieces of Western philosophy, but I find that they complicate the most simple truths. In this respect, nobody can compare with the wisdom of the ancient Chinese.’

  John Lee nodded in agreement. The words of the professor had hit their mark.

  ‘Here’s my name card, with my email address,’ the professor said. ‘If you are interested in talking more about these questions, send me an email.’ He placed his wine glass on the table and, smiling, took a name card from his suit pocket and handed it to John Lee with both hands. The card listed his various positions: Professor at the National Studies School of Northern China University, Director of the Research Centre of Traditional Culture and Modern Development, and so on.

  John Lee returned home in high spirits. He took out the sirloin steak he had bought several days earlier, marinated it in the red wine he treasured, and set it to fry over a low heat.

  Once he had eaten he turned the television to the Chinese news, hoping for a report on the day’s lecture. It was not until after ten, when the channel started to broadcast TV dramas, that he relinquished his seat to the woman.

  He sat on the bed. He didn’t feel at all like going to sleep. He wrapped his feet in a blanket, then draped an oversized brown cardigan around his shoulders. It was his favourite item of clothing, one he had plucked out of a pile of second-hand goods. When he stroked its soft woollen texture he could smell the fresh fragrance of wood. He imagined the former owner of the cardigan – who was sure to have been as elegant and sophisticated as the professor, with a cultivated wife and two lively children, living in a large white house with a tidy garden, two cars, and a small yacht kept stored in the garage.

  At midnight, he insisted that the woman come to bed. He turned off the light and reached his hand up underneath her clothes. The room was not heated and his hand was freezing cold; by contrast, her body was warm.

  John Lee was shocked at the extent of his arousal. He had thought that he was no longer interested in sex. Over the course of their thirty years together, he had only occasionally made love to her, and then only in the most desultory way. In that moment, though, he felt a sense of movement in his body that had long been dormant.

  The rhythm of life in New Zealand was so slow that it seemed to John Lee that time itself occasionally came to a halt. Monday afternoon found him sitting in the shop. Business was falling off by the day. Only a few elderly customers came in anymore, and he had given up trying to talk with them. Over the decade he had been there, whatever topics they had once exchanged words about had been chewed over so thoroughly that they had lost all their flavour.

  With the start of May, Auckland’s rainy season began; the days were all a dull overcast colour, and the rain came and went, unheralded by wind or lightning, immediately becoming the subject of everyone’s attention.

  Lying open on the table was a library copy of The Book of Master Zhuang, the margins around the philosopher’s words filled with scribbled comments.

  The woman sat at the door, hugging her water bottle, making a gurgling sound in her throat whenever she took a swig from it, swirling the water around in her mouth before swallowing. She sat with her legs spread wide, and looked uncomfortable, shuffling her thighs, a red welt hidden in the creases of her neck.

  Every so often someone would come into the shop and look around, but never with any real intention of buying anything, often just in order to get out of the rain. Now and then John Lee would lift his grey eyes from the book in front of him and glance around in search of them, hoping the customer would leave soon.

  It w
as after three when John Lee received a telephone call from Ye Xiaosheng.

  ‘Uncle Lee,’ he said, ‘I’m back from Beijing. I’ve brought quite a few good bits and pieces back with me. Why don’t you come over to take a look?’

  ‘Let’s wait until the weekend,’ John Lee replied, as he marked the calendar with a red circle.

  ‘Beijing’s so much more lively than Auckland. Actually, I’m thinking of moving back there. I shouldn’t have listened to my father when he told me to come here. Auckland’s going to suffocate me.’

  He had bought the shop from Ye Xiaosheng, and anything in his shop worth money had come from the young man, who depended for his livelihood on selling the antiques his father had collected. Ye Xiaosheng’s bits and pieces were always good, but they never brought John Lee much of a profit.

  ‘Uncle Lee, when I was in Beijing I discussed a business possibility. I think it has a good chance of succeeding. Let’s talk it over when we see each other.’

  ‘You must be joking. With the way things are in the shop, what sort of money do I have for business opportunities?’

  ‘You’ve been here so long now; you must have a bit put away? It wouldn’t take too much money – at first, anyway, and we could take it slowly.’

  ‘Xiaosheng, I have a customer. Let’s talk about this on the weekend,’ John Lee said, and hung up.

  Someone had indeed come into the shop. The footsteps were a woman’s, but when John Lee looked up he realised it was truer to say they were those of a girl.

  She was wearing a pair of pink sports shoes, her thin legs covered by purplish denim jeans, her grey t-shirt dripping wet, hair draped over her shoulders, her face very pale. She was shivering. A suitcase covered in cartoon stickers stood at her feet.

  ‘Can I stand here for a while to get out of the rain?’ she asked in Mandarin, speaking in a low voice.

  ‘Okay,’ John Lee grunted, as he pointed at the electric heater. ‘Stand over there. It’s a bit warmer.’

  The girl was like a wounded animal, cowering in the chair beside the counter, not daring to look directly at the woman but stealing the occasional apprehensive glance at her. She was biting down on her lips, showing her white teeth. She hugged herself, her wet t-shirt revealing the contours of her breasts, her collarbone appearing like a necklace around her white neck.

  John Lee bent down and turned the heater up, before pouring her a glass of hot water, in an attempt to help her warm up. ‘Drink this. It’s turned cold today.’

  The girl took a small sip of the water, to test its temperature, before holding the cup in both hands to warm them up. Her fingertips were white and woven together like a sliced onion.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be off as soon as the rain stops,’ she said, looking at John Lee gratefully.

  ‘You can stay until I close up shop,’ John Lee replied, standing at the shopfront and looking out at the falling rain. There was no suggestion that it would stop soon. And all of a sudden, John Lee seemed released from his overwhelming sense of boredom.

  ‘Are you travelling?’

  ‘The girl shook her head, a strand of her hair in her mouth. ‘I’m a student here. My lease ended and the landlord sent me packing. I’m off to live at a friend’s house.’ She spoke so softly that her words were almost swallowed up by the sound of the rain. She removed the strand of hair from her mouth and took a sip of the warm water, moistening her white lips. Her cheeks took on the faintest tinge of pink. She didn’t look so pitiable as a moment before; she had now become quite bewitching to him.

  The woman, in imitation of the girl, took a drink from her bottle as well, but somewhat too vigorously as the water went straight up her nose. She snorted. Snot and saliva ran down her face as her complexion turned a bright red.

  John Lee and the girl both started in surprise. Embarrassed, he wiped the table clean and patted the woman on her back.

  ‘This is my sister,’ he said, avoiding eye contact with the girl and pointing at his own head. ‘She’s a bit crazy, but don’t be afraid.’

  On Friday, Uncle Wang turned up with some good news.

  ‘My daughter’s getting married.’

  ‘Oh, well, congratulations.’

  ‘At the beginning of next month. The banquet will be at Prosperity Restaurant. You’re invited,’ Uncle Wang said, as he passed over a red wedding invitation embossed in gold.

  John Lee opened the envelope to find that only his own name had been printed on it.

  Uncle Wang lent closer and pointed at the groom’s name. ‘James,’ he said, ‘a young Westerner.’

  ‘Oh, so a Westerner as a son-in-law,’ John Lee said, as he checked through an inventory he had been putting together.

  ‘Ha, ha. Yes, that will be an experience.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I must say that she’s doing rather well for herself. She managed to stay on here after her graduation, and now she is going to marry a Westerner. One with a house on the North Shore, as well. He says that we can all move over there once they’re married.’ Uncle Wang raised his voice, in the hope of evoking some reaction from John Lee.

  John Lee seemed unmoved, hiding the envy he felt by wiping down a table that had just been delivered.

  ‘Make sure that you get there early on the day,’ Uncle Wang continued. ‘I’ve arranged for association members to have a separate table, and I’ve invited the chairman to come as well. He’s said that he’ll be sure to come, and that he’ll even sing a song or two to get the party going. Once an opera star always an opera star, you see – he’s a born performer.’ Uncle Wang stretched out his hand to form ‘orchid fingers’.

  Sitting at the cash register, the woman suddenly burst into applause, ignorant of the fact that she had not been invited to the banquet. She laughed as Uncle Wang squirmed in embarrassment.

  Turning to look at the woman, for a moment Uncle Wang thought he would try to explain to her, but then decided not to. He took his leave.

  John Lee patted the woman on her shoulder. ‘Nothing I can do about it. None of them want you there.’

  The night before they had departed China, as John Lee had helped her pack, he had discovered that the woman owned a violin, all the strings of which had snapped and hung loose from the body of the instrument. The varnish on the finger positions was worn through, evidence of many hours of painstaking practice.

  The woman wanted to bring the violin with her to New Zealand, but John Lee had not allowed it, taking it from her grasp and throwing it into a corner. He was determined that she be done with music.

  Once all the paperwork for their departure had been approved by the Bureau of Civil Administration, he had gone to her home for dinner. The woman’s uncle had replaced his own brother as the district leader; at the dinner, after a glass or two of wine, his face flushed red, he had taken the woman’s hand and placed it in John Lee’s, saying: ‘I give my niece to you; take her as far away as you can. And never come back.’

  John Lee was looking awkward in a crumpled dark blue suit. He ate very little but had drunk a lot. Every time a toast was proposed, its aim seemed to be to persuade him never to return to China. He couldn’t understand it. He thought that going overseas was something everyone aspired to.

  Later on, when he was in the bathroom, he overheard a conversation taking place in a nearby cubicle. ‘The little Wang girl is really lucky. As stupid as she is, and yet she’s getting married, and going overseas.’

  ‘That Li Yong fellow is an idiot. His woman was fucked stupid by everyone, but he treats her like a princess.’

  ‘I’m not at all sure we have the whole story. What if he knows all that, but he’s marrying her just so he can go overseas?’

  ‘I don’t think he can possibly know. He was sitting right next to Wang Dazhi, the man who led the charge when his wife was raped. The two of them even toasted one another.’

  In shock, John Lee began to shake uncontrollably. It was only with the greatest effort that he managed to settle himself down as he stood there, peeing
against the cistern, the arc of his urine sparkling in the moonlight. Shivering, he buttoned his trousers.

  He returned to his place at the banquet table. Wang Dazhi, well and truly drunk by now, also returned. A short man, he made a show of patting the woman on the back before turning to John Lee and saying: ‘Another toast, my brother?’

  Everyone was watching them.

  John Lee glanced at the woman. She was trembling and looked frightened. He was convinced that what he had overheard about her was true.

  He stared at Wang Dazhi, his eyes filled with suppressed anger, the glass in his hand at risk of being crushed in his clenched fist.

  John Lee could not remember whether or not he drank that glass of wine. He had chosen to forget the moment, just as he had chosen to remember other events. Once the wedding banquet had ended, he was bustled into the bridal chamber, to find the woman cowering in a corner of the bed, her fear plain on her face.

  John Lee unbuckled his belt and hurled himself at her, roughly pulling aside her underwear and countering her attempt to escape by holding her down with his elbow, engulfing her in his alcoholic reek.

  The woman stopped resisting. She cradled his head in her hands, hoping that once he had pressed his body against her own, he would begin to calm down. Suddenly, John Lee pulled away from her and leapt to his feet. With considerable force, he prised her thighs apart and stared into her depths as if he had seen the light.

  After his father died, Ye Xiaosheng had sold his North Shore house and rented an apartment in the centre of the city.

  Ye Xiaosheng and his family had arrived in New Zealand even earlier than John Lee had. Ye Daying, Xiaosheng’s father, had once studied connoisseurship with an expert employed by the Palace Museum in Beijing. In 1973, after he had watched this man commit suicide in the moat that surrounds the Forbidden City, he had spared no effort to emigrate to New Zealand, by way of his family connections overseas.

  He had departed China with a suitcase full of antiques, many of them treasures that had been seized during the ‘Destroy the Four Olds’ raids of the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution and piled up around doorways like so much rubbish. Under cover of darkness, by torchlight, Ye Daying had retrieved these antiques, one by one, thinking he would take them overseas so that one day he might be able to return them to their rightful owners.